


Let's Get Back To You And Me

by delilahbelle



Category: Marvel (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/M, Not Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. Compliant, Not Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie) Compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-06
Updated: 2015-08-06
Packaged: 2018-04-13 05:28:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4509618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/delilahbelle/pseuds/delilahbelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bobbi isn't a jealous person, but then her husband brings in his old partner he once adored instead of killing her. The effect the Black Widow has on Bobbi and Clint shakes the foundation of their marriage.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let's Get Back To You And Me

**Author's Note:**

> My comic book knowledge is questionable at best, but Bobbi and Clint are really cute together so. Kind of a mix between the comics and films. Also, I have no earthly idea what happened but this story got away from me completely and clocks in at thirty pages and basically wrote itself. However good it is is entirely your decision to make, but I didn't want to wrangle with editing it anymore. Hope you enjoy.
> 
> (No sex or violence, just enough sexual references I thought it might be better to rate it M)

It isn't as though Bobbi genuinely believes Clint is cheating on her with the Black Widow and that's why he brought in her instead of killing her; it's just that she can't convince herself he's not. Not with a dozen rumors flying around SHIELD with no regard as to whether or not she's in the room and whispers of Widow's bold flirtatiousness and bedroom eyes and the way she looks at Clint, with the promise of sex and violence. It doesn't help that she knows Widow was her husband's on/off partner during his freelance days because he has never denied his attraction to her, only the level of their involvement. Since Bobbi isn't generally going to turn into a raging jealous monster at the thought of him with another woman, she has to assume he wasn't lying to her.

(Clint's exact words were: “I wasn't bright enough to avoid her completely, but I know a dangerous woman when I see her.” And he isn't wrong; it's what makes him near impossible to seduce in the field. He isn't someone to get his head turned around by a beautiful woman. Unfortunately, it made it harder for SHIELD to hunt him down, because they sent her, and she was a newbie, and she fell in love with him. Luckily for her, her real assignment was to convince him to join SHIELD. She did that—with a marriage proposal. Fury didn't know whether to be pissed off or not.)

And she knows Clint had no desire to kill Widow or Natalia or Sofia, as Clint knew her, because he told this to Fury the second he was handed the assignment. Fury didn't care as long as he brough her in because she'd evaded every other agent they'd sent after her and Clint had the best chance of bringing her out of hiding to meet. He contacted someone they both used for ammo who said she was in Prague and left a message for him and was given access to every active criminal SHIELD was watching in Prague and surrounding areas. He sought the Widow's help in taking down a syndicate and when they celebrated in a safe house, he kissed her and some missing clothes later, she took a needle full of sedative in her neck from Clint's mouth. Clint's teeth are pretty sharp, and it's easy to make the mistake. 

Clint tells Bobbi he didn't have sex with Widow before she can even bring herself to ask, because neither of them could be described as functional and sometimes they just have assume the other is thinking the worst. If they were functional, they would not be lying and killing for a living. They wouldn't enjoy it, to a degree. As if that degree means something other than they are not complete monsters.

But the rumors still fly and people send her looks that are sometimes pitiful. The younger, less experienced ones can be chased off with a glare; Melinda May is an effective ally to have for those not cowed by Bobbi herself.

And maybe she shouldn't care, because Clint is still her husband and still comes home with her every night he isn't working and still waits at his desk for her to finish up her latest lab project or paperwork, juggling the stress balls the agent next to him keeps on her desk. He's better about paperwork than Bobbi is, and no one was more surprised than him. He finishes his paperwork as thoroughly and quickly as possible so he doesn't have to worry about it later. He doesn't do well trying to relax when something looms close. She puts it off because missions and lab work are much more fun for her than trying to put it all into words.

Two weeks after he brings in Widow, she watches him juggle eight stress balls at once out of the corner of her eye while she puts the finishing touches on her last mission report. A mission that happened three weeks ago, before he came back, and is due tomorrow at eight sharp at the latest, and she should really stop procrastinating. She could be having dinner right now—lunch was too many hours ago and the sandwich Clint brought her a couple of hours ago was fading—or she could be in bed with him, for which she'll gladly go without food. She's been sorely lacking orgasms while concerned about his fidelity. It's rare she doesn't have orgasms with him, because Clint is not used to be cared about and seems to think he has to please her endlessly in every way for her to stay with him. He's gotten better about it the five years they've been married, but it still lingers, and the psych ward doesn't seem to think it'll go away. But every time she comes close, the thought of him tangled with the redhead pops into her head, and all she can think about is the fact that he's never said exactly what he thought of Sofia. 

–

Clint is sent on a mission that should be quick but will break his promise of dropping off some mostly authentic Russian food to Widow. Natalia. So he asks Bobbi to take it to her instead, writes the name of the dish in Russian on a heart shaped post-it note his brother sent them the day he got out of prison, because Barney is kind of an ass but she loves him anyway, just like Clint. She doesn't agree or disagree and Clint doesn't ask her to do it for him because they both know she won't say no then. He phrases it in the way that he does when he knows he's asking for something that might make her uncomfortable and doesn't want to push her, and she tucks the note and address into the purse she takes with her. 

She decides around two that she'll do it, because Clint doesn't ask her for much and at one point, he didn't ask her for anything at all because he felt he had no right to, because no one ever loved him. Except for Barney, but a two year age difference means Barney couldn't possibly have known what his brother might have needed; kids can't be parents no matter how hard they try and teenage boys will probably not say 'I love you' to their baby brothers, even if they desperately needed to hear it. And the eight years of no contact due to Trickshot and the Swordsman's lies did nothing for them either.

So at five, she informs Natalia's guards she'll bring dinner instead of having the cafeteria bring something down for their prisoner and finds herself in a part of the city she barely knows. The owner doesn't speak great English and Bobbi's Russian is limited, so she just shows the note to the owner, who then shows her the two sizes it comes in. She picks the bigger one, hands over cash because there's a sign that says no credit cards, and heads back. She doesn't like the way the dish smells.

Natalia is wearing a formless black jumpsuit, and she's in the middle level of cells, the ones reserved for people they weren't planning on killing or letting free. Transition cells to a different prison were what they usually were, and it's probably only Clint's influence that keeps her away from the basement cells, where there isn't any illusion of comfort.

“Mockingbird,” Natalia greets. They had a showdown a few years ago, a fight that left them with no clear victor but plenty of bruises and a couple broken bones each. Bobbi hasn't seen her since, not even a glimpse since she's been here, but she still looks the same—long red curls, petite and curvy, with a smile that promises an exhilarating and terrifying combination.

“Natalia.” 

“You're SHIELD too.”

“Someone had to convince Clint.” It had taken almost three years and a train ride from London to Paris, where they pretended they were on their honeymoon and took in the sights when they couldn't have any more sex that day. “We could do this for real,” she said at the end, and surprisingly all he asked was if she thought Fury was genuine about the job offer or if he was just trying to trick him into prison. But if Fury wanted you in a prison he wouldn't offer you a job instead, so he followed her back to New York. Fury was even nice enough to get Barney a week long furlough on his prison sentence to attend the wedding and catch up with his brother. 

Natalia's mouth twists into something terrible. Bobbi isn't concerned though; she can take her and the guards outside will shoot without hesitation if she tries to attack. “You're the one who took him away from me.”

“I didn't need to take him. He came willingly.” Very willingly. Into her arms, into her bed, into her life. Bobbi's usual relationships started with a man's interest in her “walls” and ended quickly, with the words Ice Queen or frigid or unloving. Clint never seemed to think she was cold, but it was hard to be cold with the man who learned how to cook all your favorite dishes before he ever figured out how to make scrambled eggs and lets you watch a marathon of documentaries he finds boring all night and slams the door is your asshole mother's face and washes your hair for you and gives you massages when you're stressed and…

Clint makes her happy and she's comfortable with him, comfortable to be as withdrawn as she needs to be without the fear of him leaving. She doesn't know if she's never been in a relationship where she's been wholly understood and loved unconditionally. And isn't that a miserable thing. She should have stuck to her initial teenage thoughts about how relationships were a waste of time and energy.

Natalia doesn't glare like Bobbi expects. She cocks her head and asks, “You're his partner?”

Bobbi flashes the rings on her left hand—the diamond Clint didn't need to buy but insisted ons and the plain silver band that serves as their wedding rings. “Wife,” she adds unnecessarily. And Natalia seems okay with that. She was only offended by the idea of a new partner. “He works alone,” she adds. “Clint's been sent a mission. I've brought what he promised.” She holds out the dish, and Natalia eyes it. “You're a prisoner. You only die one way as a prisoner of SHIELD—bullets. We try not to be Guantanamo Bay.”

Natalia doesn't seem to believe that, but she takes the container and the packet of plastic dinnerware with an only a slightly unfriendly “thank you.” It smells like fish with the lid off, and Bobbi's never been a big fan of seafood. She tries not to breathe through her nose as she settles onto one of the bolted down chairs. She searches for something to say that isn't “are you sleeping with my husband?” because she really has no reason not to trust Clint and every reason not to trust Natalia. “Is it to your liking?” she asks finally, because the woman who lived next to her in her first apartment kept complaining that there wasn't any genuine cuisine from her home country. Everything was Americanized for a different crowd. 

Natalia shrugs. “It'll do.”

Bobbi has better things to do than watch this woman eat. She's got a lab request to take to Fury or she could train or she could go home and clean out the fridge because she's pretty sure some of their food is starting to go bad. She thinks she should make an effort for Clint because he's always made the effort for her so she tries a different tactic. “Clint doesn't want you to die.”

“Is there another choice?”

Bobbi knows Fury would have killed her already if he didn't want anything from her. Since she doesn't know that is, she only shrugs in response. Undoubtedly she has information on the remaining scattered members of the KGB, and there's probably a laundry list of questionable characters she's associated with that SHIELD would like to know about, but she's never been interrogated. Natalia's been left alone in prison cell except for the twice weekly visit to the therapist, who can't help her because she won't talk. 

Natalia polishes off the plate and hands the empty plastic back to her. “Thank you,” she says, and her eyes are mocking.

–

Clint stumbles into their house two days later with a blood soaked shirt and a line of blood dripping down from under his eye. Bobbi nearly knocks over the living room table when she jumps up. “I'm fine,” he says without looking up from where he's trying to untangle his jacket zipper from his shirt. “Really, baby. Even Fury didn't say anything when I debriefed with him.”

Clint drives the medical team up the wall because he doesn't stay still unless he's sedated and he refuses to be in the hospital fully awake. They've strapped him to gurneys with gunshot wounds before, although he's mostly stopped doing that for Bobbi's sake. Fury wouldn't even have medical attempt to do surgery on smaller wounds for Clint; nobody wanted to deal with him. Bobbi pointedly does not call him a stubborn idiot and instead says, “Don't bleed all over the floor, I just mopped. Go to the bathroom.” She goes off to find the heavy duty medical kit they keep in their spare bedroom, where they also keep their weapons and mini-gym, and when she gets to the bathroom, he's sitting in the tub with the water running over him. The blood must not have all been his—the cut on his stomach isn't very deep and not bleeding much either. The cut under his eye looks painful. Bobbi sits on the edge of the tub and sets the kit aside; she settles for washing traces of blood out of his hair and when he's mostly clean, she helps him out of the tub. She waits for him to dry off which he's done with before she's managed to tear her eyes away from his ass. 

Clint is smirking at her when she looks up at him and she whacks him lightly on the hip before pulling him in to work. Sewing in stitches is a task she always hopes she'll never have to do again but she does twice a year at least. Sewing up her husband is worse because she hates listening to his hisses of pain as the needle drags in and out. Especially since she wouldn't have to hear them if he wasn't so damn stubborn.

The cut on his face gets a heavy dose of rubbing alcohol because it's started oozing a bit and also because she's the tiniest bit pissed off. He hisses then sticks his tongue out at her, because after seven years together he knows when he's being passive-aggressively punished. He bites at her shoulder while she attaches a butterfly bandage to the cut. “It's your fault,” she tells him. “Medical could have done this with a painkiller.”

“So could've you,” but he doesn't sound offended. When she moves to wash her hands, he walks the hem of her oversized t-shirt up and works his fingertips into her underwear. 

“Eat. Before you blackout on me during sex again,” she demands. 

“That happened once, and I hadn't eaten in three days.” He tries for her again, but she moves away from him and he concedes, following her into the kitchen and accepting leftover pasta, eating with gusto. She wipes down the kitchen while he eats and wishes things magically cleaned themselves. Cleaning might be one of her least favorite tasks ever.

“I got Natalia her meal,” she offers up after a few minutes of comfortable silence. Or uncomfortable, because Clint is still naked and watching his muscles move is making the room seem overheated. 

“Thanks. I know you didn't want to.”

“She thought I was your new partner.”

“Did you tell you're so much more?” He scraps the last of the food with his fork; the sound of the metal on the ceramic plate is painful. 

“I told her I'm your wife and she liked that answer better. Apparently you only get to be her partner.”

“She's as territorial as they come, she just won't admit it.”

Bobbi takes the bowl from him and turns to wash it. It'll keep until morning, but she doesn't want to face him. “Did you ever sleep with her?” she asks because the question hasn't once left her head. “I won't be angry—we never said we were exclusive back then and whatever happens during a mission never counts.”

He doesn't answer and she refuses to let herself panic because she's being ridiculous enough already. Suddenly, his arms close around her and she feels tiny, because twenty years of using a bow have made his arms huge and she always feels like they dwarf her. They squeeze once, then he turns her around and cups her face gently. “Never. I never lied to you, Bobbi. I'm attracted to her but I've never slept with her.”

“Do you want to?”

“No.”

She raises an eyebrow at that because really. She kind of wants to sleep with her and she's not even attracted to women.

“I'm not eager to have my throat slit,” he says. “Besides, what woman lives up to you?” His mouth is at her ear, nipping at the lobe and moving down. She tilts her head to give him better access to her neck and lets him carry her to bed.

–

Natalia seems surprised when they both come in together. Clint has gotten her another dish from the Russian restaurant. He's gotten one for him too; Bobbi sticks with whatever the cafeteria is passing off as a chicken salad sandwich today because she's invited herself along and Clint didn't say no.

Apparently, she's territorial too. Or jealous. Either way, it's a strange feeling. SHIELD has a policy of couples never working together but on more than group mission both their skill sets were needed. She's watched him seduce a dozen beautiful women, kiss them, make promises and vows. Hell, on one mission she watched him have sex with two women at the same time through a scope because unisex names were assigned the wrong gender by their contact and he was the only guy in the mission. It never made her jealous before, and it never made her feel like she needed to remind him she was hers. But something about Natalia does, and it's probably because Clint has an obvious soft spot for her.

Clint and Natalia carry on an entire conversation that amounts to absolutely nothing in answers. Clint peppers her relentlessly with cheerful questions and anecdotes, and she responds with a minimal amount of words and imperious expressions. Bobbi resists the urge to say something; if Clint needed help, he'd look to her. But she's never liked anyone looking at Clint like that, like he's an idiot, like he's an amusement unworthy of respect.

When they stand up to leave, Natalia says something in Russian and turns away, and Clint faces fall almost imperceptibly. 

“What did she say?”

“Nothing important,” he says, because he always shrugs off anything that bothers him and lets it fester later. 

“Clinton.”

“Barbara.” He runs a hand over his face, pulls the door to the stairs open when she swipes her key card through it. He's silent all the way up four flights of stairs and the eight twisting hallways it takes to get to the labs. She wraps her hair into a bun, secures it tightly, throws on a lab coat, and tucks away her jewelry before he speaks. His fingers trace the edge of her hand. Here they keep their physical contact to a minimum, but Clint is reassured by touch, so she steps into his arms and combs her fingers through the back of his head. “She told me she wished she killed me in Venice.”

Bobbi hisses and pulls him tighter to her. She's been an assassin for years and never enjoyed killing people, but she thinks she might right now. Someone clears their throat behind them; Bobbi moves to let Dr. Masters into the lab. He watches them with a strange interest, but then again, he's never seen them so close.

“I'm fine,” Clint says, even though he looks like he'll cry. “Go to work. I might dunk out for a while. We need to go grocery shopping and I'm not on call.”

“Clint...”

“Tonight. We'll talk about it tonight. It's not—She's always been that person. It's not a surprise.”

Bobbi doesn't say what they both know: love in all its forms can be toxic and hurt you even when you see it coming. She kisses him lingeringly, whispers “I love you,” and lets him stew.

–

“What happened in Venice?”

Bobbi has forgone clothes tonight because it's hot and Clint is either feeling frisky or trying to avoid his promise to talk to her about it later. Or both, it's entirely possible. Clint's usually on the hornier side of things and on the side of things were people ignore difficult conversations. They're sprawled on a blanket in front of the television and have settled on a basketball game to ignore while they exchange kisses and caresses. He didn't come to her naked, and his t-shirt is now slung over the couch but his boxers have ended up obscuring the light of the lamp. He's half on top of her, and at the mention of Venice he tenses up.

“Do we have to do this now, doll?” he whines; his fingers dance up the side of her thigh and find that sensitive spot that makes her sigh contentedly. She bites it back and glares at him as best as she can, which isn't all that effective when naked and flushed with heat and slow burning arousal. But he caves, rolling off her to prop himself up on one arm. She turns to face him and drops an arm around his hip. 

“We talked about how your stewing was unhealthy. With a SHIELD therapist even. I promise I'll drop it when you realize she's just a monster.”

“She's more than that,” he says angrily. “She's a person. Why doesn't anyone ever see that?”

Because she's slaughtered people while laughing and burned down an entire hospital and delighted in making people squirm with their demons. But Bobbi doesn't want this to turn into a fight; she shrugs lightly and says, “She's done terrible things.”

“So have you. So have I.”

Bobbi does not point out that Clint has never killed anyone who wasn't actively making life hell of people, and she doesn't say that she steals information more than she kills. Because he wants to be a monster for Natalia, and there is the crux of the matter. He wants to be worthy of the Black Widow and he will never be, because the Black Widow has no equals. 

“I just want to know what happened in Venice,” she says. “And I don't want you to be upset about her. She's...” A complete and total monster and maybe she can change but right now that's all she is. “She's made to be inhuman. That isn't going to change overnight.”

Clint looks at her with wide blue-green eyes. “You were going to say monster again weren't you? You don't have to placate me.” He half collapses onto the floor and Bobbi takes the opportunity to crawl on top of him. His hands find her waist then slide a bit lower. She squirms into a more comfortable position. “I know that. I do know that,” he says. He stares up at the ceiling; Bobbi nuzzles into his exposed throat. “In Venice I hesitated to kill a witness to our murders. They were innocent. She told me it was the right thing to do but I couldn't. So she shot them instead and turned the gun on me.”

Bobbi resists the urge to play therapist to him. “Okay.”

He cranes his head up and stares at her for a couple of beats. “That's it?”

“I said all I wanted to know was what happened in Venice.”

“She shot my arm.”

“Okay.”

“I hate shooting with an injured arm.”

“You shouldn't shoot with an injured arm.”

“Sometimes it's necessary.”

“Are you trying to pick a fight?” Because he can throw knives with the same deadliness and he can do it with either arm. One injured arm can slow him down, but it's not like he has to use the bow. He just chooses to… every single time. 

“No,” Clint laughs. “Come down here and kiss me, doll.”

“Don't even think about taking the top from me.”

–

“Okay, so she's kind of a monster, but she doesn't know any better.”

Bobbi looks up from the biology journal. It's in Chinese and she hates translating scientific papers, but she volunteered. It was either that or comb through the videos of AIM doing something or another. She's really sick of AIM. And she really hates the whole “on call” idea. Having agents hanging around the building just in case in a headache. It's not like there are ever not enough people here. 

Clint drops down into the chair across from her. Her lab office is bigger, meant for meetings and discussions and not simply for completing paperwork, but it also means whatever she's doing in here is more important. He usually doesn't interrupt her in here, especially when he sees she's working on something, unless it's to say goodbye. But he came in and plopped himself down and started talking, so Bobbi figures he's upset. “What happened now?”

“Maria Hill was assigned to take her around the building and she tried to attack her. Now she's complaining because Hill shot in her in the leg and told her she didn't like being played with.”

Maria Hill is a new recruit with a military background and a dry sense of humor. She's Bobbi's favorite recruit they've ever made while she worked here. Except for Clint—most of the time at least.

“Sounds like she got a taste of her own medicine.”

“She heals fast. I don't know why.”

“Probably something they did to her.” The Red Room's experiments are truly fascinating to study. They did terrible things, but they made their girls stronger and faster and more physically resilient than the normal human being. She wondered if they could reverse engineer the cocktails used on them. Natalia's blood could be special. She's never been physically sick and an injury doesn't cause the same spike in chemicals in her system that a normal person would have.

“You have that manic glint in your eyes,” Clint comments, pulling her out of her reverie. 

“I do not have a manic glint in my eyes.”

“Yes you do. What new experiment do you want to try?”

“Her cells must be interesting, that's all I was thinking.”

Clint cocks his head to the side. “No it isn't. That's too tame of the manic look.”

“I do not look manic!”

He's smirking at her now. Bobbi wants to throw a paperweight at his head or lock the door and screw him on the desk. His slow smirk has always done things to her.

“I'm going to ask Fury,” she decides instead. “It could be very informative.” If not, at least Bobbi can prod at the other woman. She's not that nice of a person. It wouldn't be harmful, just uncomfortable. 

“She'll be okay, won't she?”

“I'm sure her leg will be fine,” Bobbi says absentmindedly as she searches for the proper paperwork for requests like this. Not that she won't go to Fury directly, but HR likes paperwork.

“I meant with your experiments.” His voice is carefully casual but she can hear the fear and something that has the ability to turn into bitterness. At her, probably, because he's trying to protect his friend even though she doesn't deserve it and his jealous wife is planning on using her. Not that they'll need anything from Natalia but tissue and blood samples. Maybe they'll attach her to a heart monitor and have her run. But Clint doesn't know any of this because he's never taken basic biology in school. The last time he was in school was the grade where they have you take naps during the day and finger paint.

“Just blood and tissue samples.” Clint's undergone that before for medical testing following a poisoning, so she hopes that will be reassuring enough. “Nothing major. She doesn't need to do anything.”

Clint shrugs which Bobbi takes as a conversational catapult meaning he has nothing left to say. Incongruous shrugging on his part usually is.

“Is Hill in trouble?” 

Clint barks out a laugh. “Hell no. That's exactly why she's on babysitting duty. She's the only one Fury trusted to be fast enough to shoot and smart enough to know what's a real attack.”

–

Bobbi runs the paperwork by Fury and gets the approval. Medical will deal with getting the samples. She has two days to finish translating the damn article, which isn't nearly as interesting as she hoped it would be. Clint popped up around six to drop food on her desk she barely remembers eating, and somewhere around midnight he coaxes her into going home. Clint's on call tonight in case something happens. Bobbi smacks a kiss on his cheek and agrees. She's almost done anyway. She buys fast food around the corner and comes back to drop of a burger to him. He'll eat cafeteria food because a childhood of barely being able to eat has insured he never cares what food he eats as long as he has some.

She wakes to find a message from him saying he's going to investigate suspicious activity in Oklahoma, where suspicious activity happens never. She goes in early to finish her translations, drops it off to the head of the labs, and spars with Rebecca Major. At three, Fury calls her in to his office to discuss details of the project with Natalia and assign her three assistants.

By four, she's bored out of her wits, so she goes home. SHIELD agents hang around the building constantly, but if you aren't training, completing paperwork, or actively doing something it doesn't offer much in the way of entertainment. She has no idea how Clint never gets bored when he's on call. At home at least she can watch documentaries about space without Clint making puns every three seconds.

The next day, she's well rested, she's eaten a breakfast in which she doesn't have to make another pot of coffee so she can have some (because Clint is great but he drinks too much coffee and never remembers she wants some too) or share her bacon, and she's even spent an hour jogging around the neighborhood. Which is right when she gets a phone call saying Natalia wants to speak to her, as if she has any say in anything while a prisoner. To make matters worse, the SHIELD base in Chicago calls her as soon as she hangs up with Hill to tell her they have her husband in with second degree burns and a bullet nestled dangerously close to the heart. She goes into meet with Natalia for the sole purpose of distracting herself from worrying about Clint. That way only lies misery and panic, neither of which will make her the least bit useful.

“Where's Clint?” Natalia asks lazily when she gets there.

“What do you care?”

Natalia straightens and looks her in the eye. “I care about him.”

“Try again. He's not your plaything to jerk around on a string. He's trying to do something nice for you and God knows why. It's not like you deserve anything but to die in the most miserable way a person can.” 

Natalia smirks at her. “I'm sure your husband won't agree when I tell him.”

“It doesn't matter if he does.” And it doesn't. Fury is letting himself be maneuvered into keeping Widow because she has information he wants to know. What Clint wants has never factored into it, and Clint presumably knows that. If she's not useful, a bullet to the head will be the only thing she gets. “What did you want?”

“I hear I'm being made into an experiment and you're behind it.”

“You're already an experiment. I'm behind trying to figure out if there's anything useful your body can offer us before we kill you.”

“And if I don't agree?”

“Asking for your consent is a courtesy, not a genuine question. You have no agency. You're a prisoner of SHIELD and will be subjected to anything we feel you should be.”

“So much for not being like Guantanamo Bay.”

“We deal with much more dangerous criminals. Was there anything else?”

“I didn't like my breakfast.”

“I'll make note of that. We won't bother feeding you tomorrow.”

–

Out of spite—because she isn't really as good of a person as she wants to be—she uses her senior agent status to make sure Natalia doesn't get any meals at all the next day. She has to assume Fury knows about this, but he lets the order pass through unchallenged. Probably because it's only one day. Or maybe he thinks it's for the lab. Maybe he's as vindictive as she is. Either way, no one gives her a lecture on abusing her status or the prisoners. They've been subjected to far worse. A lecture will undoubtedly come from Clint, if he ever wakes up. Bobbi pointedly does not think about as she and her assistants meet for a final review before medical takes the blood. They'll have to restrain Natalia; she's clearly been making noise. Bobbi doubts Natalia believes she'll be treated better if she complains enough, but the woman has been making people jump for her all her life. Fury has ordered the guards to ignore her and threatened her with a muzzle if she doesn't stop.

When noon hits, they've done their final review and Bobbi goes to meet with Fury. She has to wait in his office for an hour. Some junior agents managed to blow up part of a foreign naval base. She can hear Fury two rooms over, alternating between yelling at them and trying to smooth things over with whatever representative has contacted him to yell. He comes into his office and says, “Please tell me you have a fun idea again.”

“We should deprogram the Black Widow. We know most of the commands, and maybe it'll make her human.” It just pops out, but it's not a bad idea, she thinks. And even if it doesn't make her human, the process will be uncomfortable.

Fury barks out a laugh. “Best idea I've heard all day.”

He's probably been thinking it himself.

“How's Barton?”

“They haven't called me again.”

Fury settles himself into his chair. “You can postpone this experiment and go down to see him.”

“It's not necessary, sir. My husband is too stubborn to die.”

“I've heard that from medical.”

–

Clint is too stubborn to die and there's a laundry list of times he should have to prove it: a double dose of an already lethal poison in Calcutta, a bullet to the head in Mumbai, electric shock torture until his heart stopped in Bangkok, a knife wound that slit open his ribcage in the Andes Mountains, brain swelling following a horrible head injury in Buenos Aires, multiple falls off twenty story buildings. She expects him to die every time, because he's just human, because wishing for the alternative builds a hope she can't handle. So every time he does come home or recover, the relief is a crushing weight in her chest.

The relief lasts for about three days, which is how long it takes for Clint to be bored with bed rest and try to move on his own. He can't. He knows he can't. That doesn't stop him from trying—he hates being told he can't do something. Bobbi thinks about chaining him to the bed so he doesn't do anything to himself while she's gone. He can probably get out of them—and he'll need to use the bathroom at some point if he can't.

“If you move one more time, I'm calling my mother to come deal with you.”

“Your mother hates me. Your mother hates you. What would you tell her anyway?”

“I'll tell her you got mugged.”

“I have burn marks.”

“I'm sure people have tried to set other people on fire before.”

The effect of Clint's glare is ruined by his fluffed up hair and general pitiful appearance. 

“I'm serious, for the record. My mother will take the opportunity to pry into our marriage and why we're never home.”

“Maybe I'll tell her we're too busy checking up on our drug carriers.”

“I would have gone with something involving sex clubs personally. That's sure to give her a heart attack.”

–

She settles for calling Barney, who calls her two hours after she leaves to tell her his brother is a terrible patient. Well, he calls to tell her he's arrived at their house, but he announces it by saying his little brother has managed to rip out some stitches and won't let him fix them. Bobbi tells him there's codeine in the medicine cabinet and it knocks Clint out like a light for about three hours. Suffice to say this has happened before.

When she comes home, Barney is half asleep on the couch in front of a basketball game and Clint is completely out on the bed. They've learned very little about Natalia's blood today, but it's only the first day. Barney shifts as she studies the fridge for dinner ingredients. “Just order pizza,” he mumbles, “if you aren't gonna go grocery shopping.”

Bobbi sticks her tongue out at him. He's probably right. She doesn't even have the excuse of missions to use; she just hates chores. Clint usually is the one who goes shopping. “I'll go tomorrow,” she says. “You still like Hawaiian?”

Barney mutters something that sounds like an affirmative and sits up. His hair is red, but other than that, he looks a lot like Clint. His clothes are two washes away from falling apart; she makes a note to tell Clint to puppy-dog-eye his brother into new clothes. Barney doesn't accept much from them except for when Clint paid for the college courses required to get an associate’s degree to help him get a job. Unfortunately a felony conviction for selling drugs made it harder, but Barney found a job as an assistant to a physical therapist. He's probably the best person to help Clint here anyway. 

“Did you drug him?” 

He yawns and rubs at his hair, making it messier. No one ever taught the Barton brothers how to use a comb, but they can down whiskey like it's water. “Yeah, but he slept it off already. This bout of tiredness is from losing the twenty fifth hand of poker in a row.”

“What did you bet?”

“M&Ms. You're out of them by the way. And jelly beans. He ate all of them for comfort.” 

There's a crash from the bedroom. Barney rolls his eyes and heaves himself up. “I'll get him.”

By the time Bobbi has ordered three pizzas and waited on hold a ridiculous amount of time—it is not Friday or Saturday night so there's really no excuse—Barney has dragged Clint into the living room and settled him on the armchair. Or thrown him there. Clint really is a terrible patient, and all the love in the world can't save people from getting annoyed with him. Clint curls up into a ball and eyes his brother's clothes. “You look homeless. We're not homeless anymore, you know that right?”

“It's new clothes or my apartment's rent.”

“I'll buy you new clothes.”

“Yes, you better, tomorrow,” Bobbi murmurs, earning herself a halfhearted glare from Barney.

“Can't argue with the wife,” Clint beams. “Guess we're getting out of the house. Thank God. Our décor is really ugly when you've been staring at it for a week.”

“Four days,” she corrects as if he cares. “And you're the one who didn't care about redecorating.”

“I changed my mind. We need new wallpaper. I didn't realize the pattern was toads.”

“They're frogs on lily pads,” she says.

“They're toads,” Clint says definitively.

“Same thing,” Barney dismisses them both.

“They're frogs on lily pads,” she mutters.

“Whatever, it's ugly,” Clint says. “And I'm hungry.”

“Pizza's on its way.”

“I thought that was off my diet.”

“No, I said you couldn't live off of it.” At least not while she was home. Last time she went on a long mission, she came back to find empty pizza boxes littering their kitchen. 

“It's a major food group.”

“It's unhealthy.”

“We get shot at on a daily basis.”

“No, you run in front of bullets like you have a death wish. I avoid getting shot.”

“This is fun,” Barney says. “I need to visit more often.”

–

“She's walking around like a gaping wound. Is this what you wanted?”

Bobbi resists the urge to break her pencil in half. She doesn't want to have to explain to the supplies secretary why she needs more two days after getting a box of them. Clint is fully recovered and has not taken well to the news of Natalia's deprogramming. Nor has he taken well to the fact that it's a terrible process that left the Widow psychologically defenseless and easily breakable. 

Bobbi's not enjoying it as much as she thought she would. 

“Fury was thinking it when I suggested it. Why don't you go blame him?” 

Clint throws himself down. She reassesses her lab office as a place to hide from him. It's not working anymore. The door had been locked; she's pretty sure he picked it. “I'm not his husband.”

“Pretend to be for the next hour then.”

“Bobbi.”

“She needs to be deprogrammed. You have to know this Clint. You only pretend to be a complete idiot. It'll make her safer. The less she's a threat, the more SHIELD might be willing to leave her alive. That's what you want, isn't it?”

“...yes.”

“So you're here yelling because?”

“I'm not happy with you. Isn't that why people yell?”

“Isn't that why people yelled at you?”

“I thought it was more 'cause I existed.”

Bobbi rubs her head. It probably was, and she's being an ass. But so is he. “She'll be fine.”

“She's being nice. It's weird. She told me it was nice to see me earlier.”

“I want you to analyze what's wrong with that statement.”

“I never denied she was a monster. I just thought she never knew anything else.”

“It's a fair point. And for the record this isn't as enjoyable as I was hoping.”

“But you wanted to enjoy it.”

“I'm sure you already knew that or you wouldn't be so upset.”

“I wish you didn't want to enjoy it.”

“I wish you had a childhood that didn't end up you with killing people.”

Clint laughs and drops his head down. “I didn't mean to ruin us by bringing her here.”

“We're not ruined. We're readjusting. We're barely even doing that.”

“You hate her.”

“Everyone hates her. Except you.” She does not mean for her tone to imply and maybe that should tell you something but it does. Clint glances once at her and drops his head back down. He's wearing full tactical gear which usually means he's going on a mission, but he wouldn't be here if that were the case. Which might mean he's been wrangled into training with the newest batch of junior agents. Fury keeps hoping a little time with Hawkeye will teach the newbies how to aim. It never works. Clint's aim is unmatched and he likes to wear his tactical gear to be properly imposing. Most of the junior agents spend months scared of him until they realize he is quite possibly the most ridiculous agent they have. “Let's try this from the top, tonight. I have things to do. And you appear to have a class to teach. Have fun.”

Clint jumps out of the chair. “Fine. But Fury told me I'm not allowed to shoot past the newbies' heads anymore so I don't expect fun.”

“You made three students faint, honey. I'm sorry they think rumors of your aim is exaggerated, but you don't need to prove them wrong by sending a knife flying a quarter of an inch away from their ear.”

–

Bobbi has completely forgotten she's promised him a conversation by the time they get home but he's sure to remind her. He lets her delay it with dinner and a shower, but after he pins her to the bed and tells her it's time to stop stalling. 

“Okay,” she agrees, “go.”

Clint blinks confusedly at her for a few seconds. “Go…?”

“Talk. Why are you so concerned for her well being? There's a dozen other assassins out there who deserve another chance and a different life. You've killed some of them. Why her?”

“She's—She's my partner. You know this Bobbi.”

“She was briefly and inconsistently your partner.”

“This is going to be a fight, isn't it?”

“I'm not trying to fight. Since when do I pick fights?”

“Since I brought Natasha in.”

The name pulls her up short. She shoves him off of her and sits up against the headboard. “Natasha. Isn't that a nickname for Natalia?”

“She said she didn't want to be called that anymore.”

By just you or everyone else too, she wants to ask. But it's not a helpful road to go down. “When have I picked a fight? I don't have any warm memories of her. I have an ugly scar that won't go away and images of a million brutal deaths imprinted on my brain, but friendly memories are lacking.”

“I'm sorry.”

“It isn't your fault.” Clint will blame himself for a meteor hitting earth if he could. “I have an issue with her and it's spilling into our marriage.”

“And I'm too friendly with her for your comfort, so I'm not blameless in this,” he counters.

“Fine. We'll split the blame. Care to share any of your warm memories of her?”

Clint opens his mouth like he's going to launch into a passionate speech about her but after a few seconds he closes his mouth and hangs his head. “She saved a baby in Stockholm once. That's all I can think of,” he admits. His entire demeanor makes it look like he's trying to fold in on himself. 

Bobbi resists the urge to crow in triumph. Instead, she tugs at the edge of his shirt until he's moved to straddle her and cups his face. “I know you've never had any friends or made any at SHIELD, but there are other people out there. Just because she was the closest thing you had doesn't mean she's good for you.”

“You know what the Red Room is. What it does. You were the one who told me about it. Who's to say there isn't someone else underneath all that conditioning?”

“You can't assume there is.”

“You can't assume there isn't.”

“Has she ever given you any reason to believe she even wants what you're trying to give her?”

“No. But that could change.”

Bobbi drops her head back against the headboard. A little too hard. It vibrates down her spine before she registers the pain. Fuck Karma. Maybe she should be nicer. Clint rolls his eyes and gets off her to go find an ice pack. When he comes back, she's wiggled herself into a lying position. He puts the ice underneath her head and lays down next to her. 

“I'm not sure what you want from me,” she says. “I concede that she hasn't been nasty to me, but that doesn't mean anything. I have every reason not to trust a word she says. And you're always with her. What if one day you realize I'm too cold after all and it's not worth it.”

“I already know you're a frigid bitch,” Clint says cheerfully. “I've heard a million times since you married me. And several times before as a warning.”

She throws a pillow at him and mentally curses that guy who had a crush on her and didn't like that she married Clint. “I'm serious.”

“So am I. I'm not cheating on you, Bobbi. How many times do I have to say it for you to trust me? I just want to do be able to do something not destructive for once.”

“Fine. I'll support you to Fury. That's as far as I'll go. But promise me you won't let her cloud your judgment too much. It isn't you I don't trust. She's the very definition of dangerous. She's screwed with the heads of better assassins than you.”

–

After twelve weeks of deprogramming, the Black Widow is hardly recognizable. She's quiet and docile, ripped into shreds and set on fire, and she does everything with the automatic reflexes of someone gong through the motions. They haven't been able to recreate anything from her cells, but they have figured out how to counter the chemicals that make her essentially immortal. One of her assistants, a tiny blonde with flowery handwriting, tells Bobbi she thinks they should inject Natasha with it. It isn't Bobbi's choice—and it isn't Fury's off the bat. She lets Natasha make the decision, the request and explanation delivered via Clint, who needs about two hours to understand the science himself to properly tell her. And another hour to relentlessly pepper Bobbi with questions concerning the possible side effects. 

Natasha agrees to it in what Clint calls a dead tone. Bobbi relays the entire thing to Fury, who also agrees, and they leave Natasha with a SHIELD lawyer so she can make any last requests should it go wrong. Instead, she writes down all the information they could possibly want from her and makes a small note requesting cremation. Fury keeps the information sealed; once they know one way or another, he'll open it. It's kept for five months; it'll keep for another few weeks. 

They move Natasha to a SHIELD base apartment for the next few days. Maria Hill sleeps in the studio with her and armed guards stand outside. It's not as secure as the cells, but Fury's playing nice because she's too lethargic after her deprogramming. Bobbi suspects that Fury is hoping that making it easier to escape will prompt her into doing something Black Widow-like. Maybe he just finds it alarming that she's done nothing. Maybe he's looking for an excuse to shoot her.

The first twenty-four hours after the injection go by without any positive or negative changes. The next twenty-four Natasha throws up for hours. The next, her skin starts peeling. After that, her hair falls out and she's prone to falling unconscious at random. Hill takes her to the infirmary but Natasha says she's not in pain so they let her back out. They have no idea what to do for her anyway. The next day, she screams for hours, and Hill gets her a shot to knock her out. After that, the symptoms repeat for several days. Clint stays with her for three days, never coming home, and Bobbi pushes down any negative feelings she has.

By week two, Natasha appears to be fine. Her hair has fallen about but grown back, replacing the dull red strands with the sleek curls of a child's hair. Her skin had come apart, but in its place were new skin cells, smooth and elastic like a teenager's, but changing. Her body was now functioning like a nineteen year old's, with the cells mostly normal. As far as they can tell, she retains her faster reflexes and more impervious body, but she starts aging again.

And Clint stops avoiding Bobbi.  
–

“She agreed to it. You're the one who carried her agreement.”

“I thought you tested it!”

“On what? We couldn't recreate it. I told you we didn't test it.”

Clint falters for a moment. Bobbi rubs her forehead and tries not to sigh. Her efforts to play nice are pretty much useless; Clint seems to find fault in everything she does, whether it regarded Natasha or not. Last night, they spent two hours fighting over her not going grocery shopping. Again, he said, as if he did everything in the house. 

“Look, I'm trying to be nice, but the truth is I don't care if the Black Widow dies or not,” she says. Her tone is harsh; she can't bring herself to care. “And I'm this close to walking out on you. You're in love with her and you don't even fucking realize it.”

“I'm not—”

“You would follow her to the ends of the earth. I think you said that once. I noticed you don't seem to want to do the same for me.”

“Bobbi...”

“No. You know what? I'm leaving. I'll take an apartment at SHIELD. When you take your head out of your ass, let me know.”

–

Fury blinks twice at her request. She and Clint have mostly been a happy couple and she knows betting at SHIELD gives them death as the most likely reason they'll no longer be together. Clint's death, usually, because he runs in front of deadly weapons like that's actually his job description. Natasha Romanoff's presence has been a close second these past few months. “I think you should think this through, Dr. Morse,” Fury says.

“I've thought it through. I'll kill Clint if I have to spend one more night with him.”

Fury types something into his computer. “Apartment 412. Have Gibbins down in HR give you the key.”

The first night on her own, she tosses and turns. She isn't used to sleeping in narrow twin beds in places where it's alarming dark because of the covers on the windows. She gets up at three and eats a leftover slice of cake from her birthday a few weeks back. It's still half-frozen; she meant for it to be breakfast and had only put in the fridge a couple hours before. She wanders around the apartment, but SHIELD wastes nothing on their agents; it's the same sort of setup they have at a million safe houses around the globe. The lack of imagination is irritating some days, but it's comforting now. Narrow chest of drawers, small kitchen barely big enough for one, a couch that would be at home at a broke college student's place. 

She has two missed calls from Clint, both of which are pleas for her to come home. The apologies he makes seem hollow. He doesn't know what to say because he's too far into the Widow's web, even if she didn't cast it around him intentionally. Not that Bobbi's blameless in this—she's not that angry that she doesn't realize that. But she's spent the last few weeks waiting at home while Clint stays at SHIELD, spending more and more time with Natasha. Any attempt on Bobbi's part to talk to the woman is rebuffed—Natasha refuses to see her. She's given enough information that Fury gives her some of her agency back. Clint doesn't appear to think this is a problem. Clint doesn't appear to think anything is a problem with this. 

At four, she goes back to bed and wakes up around ten to more messages from her husband. She listens to them and throws the phone across the room. It's not as satisfying of a thump as she hoped; the room is far too small for that. 

She eats breakfast in the cafeteria and loiters until she sees Clint pass by and head towards the cells. She writes a note to leave on his desk: Unless you leave for a mission, are dying, or have decided to start caring about me again, don't call me. Which is probably harsh, but the longer this goes on the less she cares about hurting him.

“You're unhappy,” Rebecca Major says, sliding into the seat next to Bobbi. She's a bit older than Bobbi and helped train her when she first came in. She's always considered Rebecca a friend or an older sister figure, but she's not sure she wants to discuss this. And she definitely doesn't want Clint to find her at his desk.

“You're sitting in Garcia's chair,” she says instead. “He doesn't like people in his chair.”

“He went to Bogotá this morning,” Rebecca says dismissively with a wave of her hand. “And you came from those crappy apartments upstairs. I thought you said you'd never live there.”

“Clint and I are having some problems. That happens in marriages.”

“Especially marriages where the husband is thoroughly enamored with another woman.”

Bobbi breaks her pencil. She tosses the pieces into the wastebasket across from Clint so he's less likely to see it and calmly pulls out a new one from her lab coat pocket to sign the note, as if it needs her name.

Rebecca grins. “I can take him to Iowa, if you want. I get to pick my team for it.” 

Clint absolutely hates his home state. He refuses to go on even missions there, but Rebecca is too senior an agent for him to deny her without good reason. And no one considers childhood trauma good reason; none of the agents would be here if they had happy childhoods. The only reason he's been able to avoid it in the past is because Iowa is not a hotbed of the type criminal activity they investigate. Or criminal activity in general. Bobbi supposes it must have murder and drug and assault charges like any other state, but she's never bothered to look up their statistics. Still, the idea of Clint suffering in Iowa makes her smile.

“You're terrible. I'll tell Fury now,” Rebecca says gleefully. She picks up Garcia's desk phone and punches in the zero. “I'm not in Bogotá, Garcia is. It's Major. Sir, you're not funny. I want Barton with me. What? He's a good spy. You're the one who thinks he needs more on the ground experience. Yes, sir. No, sir. Thanks.” She hangs up. “Fury's onto us. Either he's helping or he can't argue with Clint needing experience.”

“This feels terrible. I want things to be smoothed over.”

“Better get your hooks back into your husband then. Romanova's recovered from her deprogramming and she's playing her games with Clint. I thought he wouldn't ever get his head turned but she's playing him like a fool.”

“He used to be in love with her,” Bobbi says. “Or he thought he was. He told me that once. And now she's back and I'm starting to think I was his second choice.”

“I don't think Widow as ever a choice.”

“So basically I was his only choice.”

“He loves you.”

“He might love her too. And considering he's picked a fight every other night for the last four weeks, I think I know whose side he'll take.”

–

Unfortunately, due to Luisa Sanchez's gunshot wound, Bobbi ends up joining the Iowa mission too. She and Clint sit on opposite sides of the plane while Rebecca briefs them with all the new information. New intel says it isn't nothing after all. It's AIM, again, thinking no one would look for them in the Midwest. If they hadn't tried to buy questionable materials at a local hardware store, they probably would have stayed hidden for a while.

Clint mutters something about “fucking farms” and slouches down in his seat. Next to him, Gordon Smith glares. He had failed to bring Clint in as a prisoner when SHIELD was hunting him down and it was a sore spot. The sore spot was further irritated when Clint proved himself a better sniper, hunter, and all around more lethal agent. Gordon was getting old then, and now he's pretty much at the end of his life as a field agent, but he refuses to acknowledge Clint's age is in his favor.

“We need to do this as quietly as possible.”

“We're not rookies, Major. Get on with it.”

“We've taken multiple rooms across the hotels in area. The team will be spread out.” Rebecca spares an apologetic glance for Bobbi. “The manager at the Bella Luxe has ties to AIM but the only room available was the honeymoon suite, so Morse and Barton will be there.”

Bobbi makes a mental note to kill Coulson when she gets back. He's handler on this, albeit a long distance one; it was likely his choice. Rebecca would have at least informed her earlier.

Gordon mutters something about “focusing on the mission.” Clint response is sharp and cold, but Bobbi can't catch all the words from where she is. 

Martin Goldman tells Gordon, “Morse has been living next door to me in the apartments. What makes you think that'll led to them screwing away the mission?”

“I'll be with Goldman at Motel 6,” Rebecca says. 

“You always take me the best places, Major.”

“Gordon and Camilla will be at the Hampton Inn. Motel 6 is going to be our base. We have three rooms and it's far enough away that AIM won't look there. Barton and Morse will be closest. There's intel that says AIM will try a new machine at the Bella Luxe. They'll be first in the line of fire.”

“Is that for the best?”

“They're the youngest and they're internationally renowned spies and assassins. And I'm sure they can pass off as newlyweds well enough.”

–

Bobbi's cover is named Bambi. This earns a huge grin from Clint, and she knows if they ever fix their marriage, he will forever call her that. His name is, boringly enough, Caleb. He wears khaki shorts and polo shirts, and he complains all the way there until they step out of their rental car. Then he becomes Caleb Hamilton, who is generally posh and rich and spoiled. Bobbi's cover seems to be an adoring, kind of promiscuous girl from the wrong side of the tracks. Her skirt is ridiculous short, her top covers absolutely nothing, her blonde hair has been dip-dyed blue, and if she needs to run, she'll have to kick off her shoes. 

The Bella Luxe is not exactly luxurious when compared to hotels in New York, but for Iowa, she supposes it's fine. The management subtly wants to know why they're coming to Iowa of all places for their honeymoon, because apparently their covers are of an actual rich family. SHIELD likes playing games like that. Clint plays rich boy who doesn't answer to anyone really well, and Bobbi uses a little-girl-from-porn voice to gently explain his parents weren't happy about the marriage. When they get to their room, they sweep for bugs and set up surveillance. Clint kicks off his clothes, apparently finding his underwear more comfortable, even if they are tightie-whities instead of his usual boxers. 

“If this is the honeymoon suite, I'd hate to see their other rooms.”

He's not wrong. The gilt and filigree is both faded and over the top, and wallpaper is covered in cupids. Their bows are not correctly rendered; Clint will probably have something to say about that when he stops staring at the gaudy crystal chandelier in the middle of the ceiling like it's a ten car pileup. 

“We're here,” Bobbi says into her comm. 

“Is it luxe?” Camilla Covington asks. “At least you can count on a chain to be decent.”

“It's… something.”

“It's gaudy,” Clint says, and she hears him both across the room and in her comm. “But it's better than Motel 6.”

Goldman mutters his agreement into the comm. Bobbi lets go of the button and turns to Clint. “You'll have to put your clothes back on eventually. We have a dinner reservation where they think AIM will be.”

“This is the worst mission I've ever worked, and we barely got here. Why am I even here? I'm a sniper.”

“Rebecca wasn't happy about how you were treating me. I wasn't supposed to be here at all.”

“Glad you get punished too,” he mutters. Then louder, “The cupid bows don't look like bows.”

“I was wondering when you'd notice that.”

–

Bobbi learns three things that night: AIM took a course in television villainy and are now trying to build a weather machine, the Midwest cannot be counted on to have decent food, and you needed to be careful if you were wearing short skirts otherwise everyone will see your underwear.

“They were very nice underwear, Morse, you don't need to be so embarrassed,” Goldman says as they follow the AIM truck from half a mile away. “Red and lacy if I recall.”

“I'm going to shoot you.” 

“You don't have a gun,” Clint reminds her. “There wasn't any place to put it.”

“True. But I have eight knives on me.”

Goldman studies her through the rear view mirror like he's trying to figure where they are. Bobbi herself isn't sure how she managed to hide so many. Most of them are in her undergarments. She should probably be grateful everyone noticed her ass and not her knives.

“I don't like this,” Rebecca says. “A weather machine could be code for something else.”

“Like what?” Camilla asks. She tosses her hair out of her face; it whacks Clint. She waves her hand in vague apology. “AIM would hardly been the first people to try to create one.”

“I thought we established it was near impossible to harness the weather like that.”

“But not totally impossible.”

They bicker about that on the way. When AIM pulls into a complex, they hang back, climb out of the car quietly (Bobbi has to toss her five inch heels which her feet are happy about), and watch for a while. Rebecca directs in them in their pairs to three seemingly strategic points, and Bobbi pretends she can't feel gravel in her feet as she follows Clint up a hill. “I hate Iowa,” he says.

“We know.” She's starting to hate it too.

–

They get nothing but the general feel of the operation, so Bobbi and Clint get a taxi back to their hotel from where Goldman drops them off. They must look like they've been screwing in a field, possibly because her skirt is ripped, she's holding her shoes, and she managed to cut her underwear on a rock and they're now in a smirking Clint's pocket, along with some of her knives. She misses her own weapon, but it can't be miniaturized to be carried. At least Clint is also without his.

Inside the hotel, she shoves past him for the shower. He joins her; of course he does. Her night hasn't been bad enough already. She's pretty sure dinner is going to end up in the toilet if her stomach doesn't stop churning—she can't remember the last time she ate something so questionably cooked—she's coated in dirt, her feet are killing her, and she had to deal with Goldman making fun of her for the twenty minutes it took for him to find a close enough place to drop them.

Clint's arms slip around her waist and there's a nip at her neck. “Still not living with you,” she says. “How's Natasha?” 

“We're honeymooning. You're not allowed to fight during honeymoons. I think that's a law.”

“They need to send you back to the Academy. And it's fake, Caleb.”

“I never went to the Academy. And you're a terrible wife, Bambi.”

“You're this close to being a cheating husband.”

“I've never slept with her.”

“Wash my hair or leave me in peace.”

Clint's hands are tender and skilled and she's starting to relax by the time he tilts her head under the water to wash out the soap. They finish their shower in silence, but he's antsy when they get out.

“What's wrong?”

“Stupid hearing aids.”

While working, SHIELD has him put in absolutely tiny hearing aids that work better than the usual ones, because spies can't have such an obvious weakness. But they have to be taken out and put in with a needle by medical, and Clint finds them both a pain in the ass and incredibly painful for more than three hours at a time. He's been wearing his normal ones around SHIELD the last few days, and that always makes it harder than usual for him to go into his issued ones.

“Sorry,” she says because she is, but there's not much she can do about it. “Hopefully it won't be a long mission.”

Clint sighs and throws himself down on the bed fully naked. She hands him her brush and plops down next to him. “You're mad at me but you want me to brush your hair?” he asks.

She puts on Bambi's little girl voice. “It's such a sweet thing for a husband to do.”

Clint winces. “I'll do it as long as you never use that voice again.”

Bobbi grins and turns away from him. She feels him sit up and reposition himself so he can work comfortably. “I'm not mad at you,” she says. “I pity you.”

“That's worse.”

“Nothing Natasha has ever told you has been the truth. She's shot you. She's played you. Why you trust her is beyond me. But you're being so stupid about it. She doesn't want to be a SHIELD agent or find a new life away from espionage. She wants to be free and she wants to ruin as much as she can while getting there. She may have been deprogrammed but what the Red Room taught her is far too ingrained for her to unlearn overnight. She needs time and therapy and—”

“People treating her like a person.”

“Yeah.”

“We're talking in circles, Bambi.”

She puts on the voice again. “We've only been married a week and you're already so cruel to me.”

She doesn't have to look behind her to know Clint winces. “You can't be surprised,” Clint says. “Especially when the first time I saw you you were wearing a deer costume.”

Hunting Clint down on Halloween didn't work out as well as everyone hoped. Finding him in the crowd hadn't been easy, and when she did, he pinned her to the wall with three arrows and fled. 

“You made a cute deer.”

“You made a terrible Cupid.”

Clint laughs, and the sound is warm and sweet in her ear. She misses him more than she'll admit to, but she can't live in a marriage where her husband resents her. “Hey,” he says, “I did a great job playing Cupid. I found the love of my life.”

“Why do you hate me?”

“I don't—Is this about Natasha?”

“You picked fights with me for weeks and now you're calling me the love of your life.”

“You are. Look, I'm sorry about the fights. I just—I don't know.”

“You know she's playing with you.”

“Yes.”

“And that you can't believe anything she says.”

“Yes.”

“And that you can't make her choice for her.”

“Yes.”

“Okay. So we'll stop talking in circles.”

“Will you come home?”

“I'll think about it.”

–

The mission takes four weeks to complete. In the end, they've got the prototype and a few dozen AIM agents in custody, and they've each taken a gunshot wound. Bobbi's is in her leg; Clint, as per usual, has taken one in the back, dangerously close to his spinal cord. Rebecca puts him out with a syringe full of sedative and calls for a medical extraction and armed trucks. A SHIELD base close by sends them out, and they take Clint back to work on him.

“He's a fucking idiot. I'm not moving back home. I'm leaving him so I don't spend everyday of my life worrying about the fucking idiot that runs in front of bullets. He saw it coming.”

Rebecca grins at her. “That's a nice idea, Ice Queen, but your hands are twisting in that nervous way of yours.”

“I hate you too.”

“Uh huh. Do you want medical to check out your leg or are you sure your husband's up to date of field medicine?”

“They can check it.”

Clint is out of surgery two hours later. Bobbi has debriefed with Fury, and Fury has suggested full body Kevlar for Clint. Or possibly another few rounds with a therapist so they can have a long discussion about Clint's lack of desire to live. Neither of them are likely to come to pass; Clint attends therapy only to fulfill the terms of his contract and when forced to by well-meaning superiors and Kevlar is expensive to outfit him in.

When he wakes up, she's sitting by his bed, dressed in SHIELD-issued sweatpants and a brand new bandage. Her leg isn't hurting, but then she's gone two weeks trying to pretend she could stand on her leg. Hiding a bandage under the world's smallest skirts was not a challenge she was particularly adept at. The management at the hotel were under the impression her husband had injured her. She got a piece of paper with the number for an abuse hotline shoved in her palm when she went to subtly question the manager about his AIM associations. Clint had been silent for hours afterward, no doubt being haunted by memories of his father's abuse. Distracting him with sex or conversation hadn't worked, so Bobbi dragged him to Rebecca, who set him on trying to break down the mechanics of a piece of tech they found outside the complex. Nothing distracted him like missions; he was determined to do well. And despite the fact he didn't have any experience with engineering, he hit on most of the points R&D sent them.

“I'm taking you back to a SHIELD therapist,” she says when he croaks out her name. “We're going to have a long discussion about your death wish. Again.”

Clint tries to speak, but his throat is probably dry. She calls for the doctor and is given ice chips to help him eat. She pops one in his mouth when the doctor leaves the room. “Don't even bother arguing. I found a gray hair while I was showering. I'm not old enough for gray hairs.”

Clint laughs weakly. “Sorry,” he gasps out. “But I hate therapists.”

“I can talk Fury into making it an order.”

Clint sinks deeper into the gurney. “You okay?”

“My leg is fine. My psyche is scarred.”

“It was going to hit Goldman in the head.”

“You could have just shoved him out the way.” But Clint didn't think like that. Clint didn't care to think like that.

“What's happening now?”

“Everyone is fine. The team is heading to our home base in the morning. We're staying until the doctors clear you for travel. At least three days. You're not leaving this bed except for the bathroom. Try not to drive medical up the wall. They're not used to you here.”

–

Bobbi does move home when they get back. Barney calls to tell her, “Thank God. He was leaving whiny messages on my phone all day long,” then ask her what the deal was with a Natasha. Bobbi condenses the information into a two minute conversation. Barney has nothing to suggest, so he asks if he can come down this weekend.

Clint has taken up residence on their bed again, which is so common it's ridiculous, but she imagines he won't be down long. The bullet missed his spine by a wide enough margin that it won't be any more difficult than a regular bullet wound to heal from. Bobbi gives it two days before he's moving around completely, ignoring the whole pushing-your-body-too-far-too-fast thing. Also, he'll probably be sick of her “cooking” which mostly involves pasta or rice and frozen vegetables. But for now he's not, so she makes him a plates and sits next to next to him on the bed to eat.

“You didn't come back because I was wounded, did you?” he asks.

“No.”

“Are we ever going to talk about Natasha?”

“We did.”

“Fury wants her to work missions for us for a year to make sure the deprogramming is enough.”

“I heard.”

“And she'll be my responsibility.”

Bobbi bites back a sigh. “I heard that too.”

“I don't think I'll be able to shoot her.”

“I don't think she'll hesitate to shoot you.”

“We're never going to agree on this, are we?”

Bobbi sets aside her bowl. She hates her own meals anyway. “Do you know why Fury's doing this?”

“He didn't tell me, no.”

“While you were gone, she appeared to be worried about you. She shared things with a therapist. She showed actual human emotions. I'm not sure if they're real. Fury think they're not. This is a test. And it's just one for her. If there's any indication you can be trusted—SHIELD's already hunted you down once.”

“And they didn't catch me,” Clint says as if that were the point. Not that he's wrong—he is very good at using circus tricks to escape.

“That's not the point.”

“I can't trust her. I know that. But I do like her and maybe I once was in love with her and I'm stupidly fond of her—”

“Stupidly is very accurate.”

“—and I want to do this. But, though you don't believe me, I want this marriage to work more than I want to give her another chance. So if you're really uncomfortable with the idea, I won't do it.”

Bobbi looks to the ceiling and weighs her options. She knows he means it, but she also knows if Natasha is assassinated by SHIELD, Clint will not be happy. No matter how she spins the dice it comes down to SHIELD and Natasha. Or maybe it comes down to her and Natasha. She'll probably leave SHIELD if Clint goes on the run, and she's not sure she can live like that.

“I need time,” she says. He doesn't push.

–

Clint will undoubtedly be around soon, Bobbi thinks as she flips through pages of research. Fury wants an answer by today, and she will have to make her up mind. She's safe for now though—R&D has detained Clint for the newest batch of experimental hearing aids despite his protests. Nothing short of the miracle of his eardrums healing will stop them. Bobbi flips through the pages without reading and wonders how she got so bitterly jealous. Jealousy was usually Clint's problem. She's been trying to find an answer for months now, and all that she gets is this problem dragged out.

She turns the research back to the beginning and slides it into a drawer. It won't get done today. She heads off to the training room and gets into a three hour sparring session with Melinda May. When they're done, Melinda trails after her into the showers.

“Let's about Barton and Widow,” she suggests, jerking Bobbi back into place when she tries to go into a shower stall. “You need to discuss this with someone. You've shoved your boy toy into therapy but you're refusing more than the required sessions. Let's talk.”

So Bobbi sits on a bench in what amounts to SHIELD's locker room and tells everything she's been thinking to Melinda. When she's done, she leans back and sighs.

After a couple beats, Melinda says, “I understand where you're coming from. But I get his point too. She's not going to change if she doesn't have a reason to, but even with that, we don't know how deep the Red Room is in her. It could be an irreversible thing. We need to know. She could be a valuable asset, and she hasn't been causing problems lately.”

Bobbi scrubs at her sweat-wilted hair with her palms. “Fury wants to talk to me directly in an hour. He knows it's me delaying things. And I need to talk to Clint first.”

“Dr. Abrahams is out of her office today. I think she caught the flu. Rinse off. I'll send Barton to you there. It'll be more private than your lab.”

–

Dr. Abrahams is Clint's least favorite SHIELD therapist, which is saying something, because Bobbi's fairly sure he hates all of them. Bobbi uses her card to open the office and Clint is less than a minute behind her. His hearing aids are hooked on his jacket collar, and there's rain in his hair. He signs, Melinda looked mad. What's wrong?

She shakes her head to let him know nothing is wrong and gestures for him to sit. He tugs his hearing aids back into his ears and flicks them on. “This isn't going to be another fight is it?”

“No. I needed to say something.” She's changed into a pencil skirt and a blouse, the only clean clothes she had left in her locker. She picks at a loose thread while she tries to think of how to phrase it. “I don't trust Natasha.” Clint does not bother pointing out she's already said this; she can feel it in his gaze. But he's a sniper, and snipers are patient. “And I… don't trust you to keep a level head with her. I feel like I should say yes, because you're allowing me an opinion even though it's really only your choice—”

“Anything that affects our marriage can't be only my choice.”

“—but I can't say yes until I know there's enough safety measures in place for your sake.”

She does not look up, but she knows Clint well enough to know he's cocked his head to the side and is measuring her with a steady gaze. “You'll make your final decision with Fury,” he translates.

“If that doesn't bother you.”

Clint moves to sit on the arm of her chair. “Does that mean we can stop fighting?”

“Yes. But it would be nice if Natasha could be persuaded to talk to me.”

“I'll talk to her.”

–

“I hear you, Morse. Hill will be their handler, and if Barton fails to shoot, she will. For the record, the World Security Council wants to secure their faith in him not me.”

Bobbi follows Fury's directions to the letter usually, but she's never sure if she can trust what he says. “Of course, sir.”

“As long as he doesn't run off with her, we'll be okay.”

Bobbi definitely doesn't believe that. There are other ways Clint can betray them. “Yes, sir.”

“She'll have a tracker and an implant with a cocktail to paralyze her if need be.”

“Since when do we do things like that?”

“She's half the reason I'm missing an eye. I'm a little vindictive, what can I say?”

“Okay.”

“So we're good.”

“Yes sir.”

–

“We'll be okay,” Clint says, subjecting himself to Bobbi's adjustments of his tactical suit for the fourth time. “Natasha isn't going to kill me. She never has before.”

“I'm not worried about that.”

Clint cuts her a glance and then wiggles out from under her hands. “Bambi, this isn't something you should worry about. Especially since you're leaving to Venezuela tomorrow. You can't be distracted while infiltrating drug cartels. Take that from someone who knows.”

“I'm calm and focused.”

“Barbara.”

“Be careful, baby.”

“My partner will not shoot me in the back.”

“Of course not. She usually shoots from the front.” Bobbi drops her head onto his shoulder. “I'm sorry. I just can't lose you.”

“You should be more worried about him running in front of lethal weapons again,” Maria Hill says, entering the room. “Romanoff seems to be enjoying his company. We have to leave in five, Dr. Morse, if you don't mind.”

Clint sweeps her into his arms, picks her up, and spins her around. He gives her a huge kiss and murmurs, “I love you, doll.”

“Love you too.”

Clint precedes Hill out the door. Hill pauses, looks back at Bobbi, and says, “He'll always want to come back to you, you know.”

“I know. Good luck, Lieutenant Hill. You're going to need it.”

“Yeah, I've heard all about your husband's issues with authority.”

–

They come back, alive and well, of course they do. Clint will still follow Natasha to the ends of the earth, but Bobbi finds it isn't all blind devotion on his part, and anyway, she can live with it as long as he comes homes to her.


End file.
